Strait ahead for action!
It might be surrounded by desert, but the Strait of Hormuz is an angler’s dream
THE Strait of Hormuz is the point in the Middle East where the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman merge. Surrounded by desert, it’s far from being an obvious destination for an angling break. Yet this narrow strip of sea is prime game fishing territory and had been high on my bucket list for some time.
So when I got the chance to go and leave a gloomy British winter behind, I jumped at it.
Six hours after taking off from Heathrow I was greeted by a
landscape dominated by the Burj Khalifa and other ultra-modern skyscrapers whose walls of glass and steel glinted as strongly as the Arabian sun. A magnet for tourists this may be, but the luxury lifestyle wasn’t for me.
Instead, a car was waiting to take me to my friend Sam Wakerley’s home in the suburbs. Soon we were leaving the glitz and glamour behind, to be replaced by sand dunes and camels as we headed through the United Arab Emirates.
The arid landscape changed dramatically at the border town of Al Jeer. Here, mountains of impenetrable rock rose far higher than any skyscraper – a forbidding sight, and just maybe we should have heeded signs of rain falling across the western Majar range.
Our journey could only continue by crossing into Oman and taking the coastal road. Crossing the border, we were now wedged between sheer cliffs and the Strait as our vehicle wound through the passage to Khasab.
Finally we reached our destination, a hotel perched on a rocky peninsula on the Persian Gulf side of the Strait. We intended to rest overnight before taking to a boat and reaching our true target – a series of rocky outcrops and islands. Here a huge water mass funnels in, providing a playground for big-game fish.
After checking into our rooms,
Sam and I bypassed the bar and, like true angling addicts, hurried down to cast off the rocks and make our first true connection with the Strait of Hormuz.
Tiny tropical fish devoured our lures, along with a large gar toting some of the most impressive teeth I’ve ever seen. Great fun, and the excitement of sport to come made our evening curry all the tastier.
At six the next morning we made our way to the port of Khasab, and after a passport check by the coastguard, our two guides welcomed us aboard their boat. It seemed a strange place to meet 24-year-old David Wilmot, who like us had been lured to this part of the world by the fishing bug. He and skipper Anura made us welcome, and it was reassuring to be in safe hands.
As a golden dawn spread across mountains where leopards still roam, we could finally say we were fishing for what we had come for.
The giant trevally has the perfect nickname for a fish with worldwide cult status – ‘GT’ sounds like a sports car and whets the appetite for battle. They don’t disappoint, smashing tackle for fun with relentless energy and blistering speed. No wonder we were kitted up with Shimano Stella reels and bespoke rods.
Casting huge poppers and stick baits to distant reefs and cliffs is hard work, and far removed from my usual style of fishing. But this was the main reason I was here – where’s the fun in knowing everything?
David showed us what to do, propelling a lure a distance we would never reach, especially after hundreds of muscle-sapping casts. Fortunately, Anura was a skilled skipper, not only putting us on perfect drifts, but close to the areas where the currents collided and an ambush could be set. Here in the running tide, GTs would lie
“A silver torpedo hit the surface, its bullet head turned to the sun.”
in wait for their prey.
Flexing the rod, I made two turns of the reel handle, forcing the popper to break through a wave. That was the signal for a big GT to smash into the lure. Despite striking the hook home with a drag set tight enough to pull me overboard, I was ‘reefed’ within 10 seconds as sharp rock pinnacles sheared through the braid. This, I learned, was an occupational hazard when GT fishing, confirmed later in the day when in exactly the same place I was beaten up a second time.
In between I did get to feel the power of a smaller fish for longer, but the true star of day one was Sam, when he made a cast into a tight passage of deep water known as the Lion’s Jaw. The GT did for Sam’s back, and for a moment he considered passing the rod over. In this situation, abuse rather than encouragement, works best. The last thing I wanted was for my friend to give up the fish of a lifetime. He rallied and, despite the pain, a big silver torpedo hit the surface, its bullet head turned to the sun and away from the abyss. A day to treasure, and what a start to our trip!
I awoke early next morning to rumbles of thunder as a monsoon pounded Khasab and the wind whipped the Strait into white horses. I knew well before the text came that we were doomed – losing a day’s fishing at this point was catastrophic. Did I mention that my GT pilgrimage was for two days only? A ridiculously short stay, and half of that had gone!
There was no time to feel sorry for myself though. The concern now was that the storm would bring with it a rock fall and flooding that would close the mountain road. We tried to leave immediately but were told that it wasn’t safe, and we had to keep our fingers crossed for four more hours.
When we finally left Oman I did so with relief, but sorrowful for what I had missed. I did, though, find solace on the long journey home. After all, on this adventure – short as it was – I had cast a line into a tinderbox full of fish.